


Hearts Like Ours (Don’t Break Easy)

by BlueNeutrino



Series: British Bulldog [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Biting, Blood Drinking, Choking, F/M, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Season/Series 12, and it’s honestly pretty tragic, two fucked up people having fucked up sex for fucked up reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 16:26:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17389733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueNeutrino/pseuds/BlueNeutrino
Summary: Ketch and Carter, plus knives and stethoscopes in the bedroom, not enough whiskey, uncomfortable vulnerability, and saying yes to things for bad reasons.





	1. Chapter 1

"Stoli?" She gestures at the half-drunk bottle.

"Actually, I'd prefer Scotch, if you have any."

Carter fixes a steady gaze on him, and for a moment he wonders if that blank expression means she's offended. Then, "I have some. In the bedroom."

She turns and heads for one of the doors at the back of the apartment, making no move to stop him when he follows. Her bedroom, when he arrives, is plain: one queen size bed with black sheets, an ash dresser against one wall, and cream drapes over the windows. The decanter of whiskey is on the nightstand.

Ketch lets the door swing part way shut behind him, then gives it a firm push so that it closes just loudly enough for her to know it was on purpose. Carter pauses, black hair spilling over her shoulder as she turns to look back at him.

"You didn't have to follow me." Her steel grey eyes have narrowed. "I'd have brought it through."

He doesn't respond to that. Instead, he strides the final few paces between them and kisses her.

At first she doesn't respond, not stiff, but completely still as he presses her lips to hers. Her mouth is cold, motionless, and for a moment he wonders if this is like kissing a corpse. Then, only slightly, she opens her mouth and lets him in.

It lasts no more than a few seconds. Ketch is the only one to expend effort on the kiss before Carter clamps her lips shut again and tilts her head away. He pulls back just an inch, his eyes locked on hers. Her gaze is cold.

"Careful," she says, and there's a warning in her tone. "You don't want me to stop you."

"No. But you won't."

She could have by now. Quite easily. Mary hadn't stopped him either, and he almost wishes she had.

Carter doesn't dispute it. Instead, her eyes flicker down, expression changing minutely, and he isn't sure if he reads interest or even curiosity there. Whether it's an invitation or not, he'll take it.

Ketch moves suddenly. He pushes her up against the wall, fingers closing tight around her bicep as his mouth crashes onto hers. She lets him, unresponsive, hands hanging limply at her sides. Her lips fail to reciprocate so he moves onto her jaw instead, teeth scraping over skin before nibbling down her throat. She looks over his shoulder, thousand yard stare at the wall.

"You couldn't make me feel pain," she says blankly. "What makes you think you'll make me feel pleasure?"

He hums softly, breath warm on her skin. It feels of nothing. "Because your pleasure centres aren't in your body," he says, kissing his way back up her cheek. "It's all in your head."

"You sure that's where it is?"

"I distinctly remember you telling me you don't have a heart."

She lets him continue, hands beginning to roam across her body, and she closes her eyes. She swears she can hear the blood rushing in his veins. "God, I want to hurt you."

"What's stopping you?"

Isn't that the million dollar question?

He nips at her earlobe, breath achingly hot, and she moves. A fist like iron strikes his jaw, he cries out, and then she's spinning them, slamming him back against the wall with a hand at his throat. He doesn't struggle, almost smiling as he stares down at her and tries to draw breath. There's blood on his lips.

Carter's stare hardens.

She takes a pace back, slowly moves so that he's forced to follow. His feet tread deliberately, steadily, one step back at a time as she holds him at arm's length. "On the bed," she growls, then the backs of his knees collide with it.

She lets go, shoving roughly so that he falls back down onto it. He throws his elbows out to break his fall, lands, then stares up at her, chest heaving as he pants. He's grinning.

Carter raises an eyebrow. "I've tortured and killed every man who's fucked me," she says coldly. "Every last one. Without fail. You sure you wanna go there?"

His tongue darts out over his lips. "I'm not asking to fuck you."

A mocking look settles on her face. "What do you think this is gonna be? Making love?" She saunters over to him with a sneer, clambering onto the bed to straddle his hips. He still seems nonplussed, levelly meeting her gaze.

"No. But you can fuck me, if you want to."

The ghost of a smirk curls on her lips. "Good boy. You might just survive this yet."

Her hands grasp for his tie, roughly pulling it off, and then she grips his jaw firmly in her left hand. "Open up."

It's not clear how much choice he has but to obey. She starts to stuff the strip of silk roughly into his mouth, earning a glare, but he doesn't struggle. She almost wishes he would.

His shirt comes next, popping the first few buttons before she impatiently rips it open and sends them flying. He's gonna be pissed at that in the morning, but she doesn't care. A teasing fingertip trails over his sternum. "Arthur, dear. What are you letting yourself in for?"

Her hand comes to rest on his chest. His skin burns, soft layer of fuzz tickling her palm. It's not unfamiliar. The difference is this time there's no scalpel, just her fingers to explore. She has to feel it. To know.

He knows what she's doing, arching his back into her as her nails claw into his skin. He doesn't reach for her, but makes sure to thrust his ribcage forward, seeming to welcome the pain as she pushes hard over his sternum. Fucking asshole. There's something almost admirable about it, how quickly he has her figured out. Clever.

His heart's racing.

When she goes for the rest of his clothes, tugging his shirt and jacket from his shoulders, he finally reacts, going for the hem of her top. She stops him with a firm grip on his wrist, harder than necessary, and he grunts in pain. It's the same wrist as last time. Still tender, and it fills her with a strange sense of satisfaction.

She's sure to hold his gaze as she keeps his arm tightly in her grasp, moving it up and over his head towards the headboard. Her other hand goes to his mouth again, reaching for the silk gag and tugging it out from between his teeth. He grunts, watching her cautiously as she takes hold of his other hand and directs it the same way before securing them both in place with his dampened tie. He's almost unsettlingly compliant, even when she fastens the knot needlessly tight and draws another hiss of pain. Doesn't stop him giving her a cocky grin. "Are you going to test my heart, doctor?"

She glares, and clamps a hand roughly over his mouth. "Shut up."

There are a few tense seconds before she resumes undressing him, pulling off his shoes and trousers followed by his socks, all the while refusing to look at his face. He watches her from the top of the bed, feeling himself grow harder as she slides the fabric away from his skin until he's left only in his boxers. It's hard to know whether to be scared or turned on.

She has an attractive face, he'll give her that. By rights, everything about her demeanor should be repulsive, if it weren't for that savage, primal part of him that's so drawn to her brutality. He knows what's beneath her clothes isn't pretty, and he likes it all the more.

A hand runs up his inner thigh before cupping his balls, and his breath hitches. He's so close, just that final layer of fabric before she has him stripped and entirely vulnerable, yet she's drawing it out. It isn't teasing.

For all her dominance, Ketch knows hesitation when he sees it. "Are you sure?" he breaks his silence.

She blinks; looks up at him. "What?"

"Are you sure you wish to continue?"

He gets no response to that, just that blank stare that he's learned by now hides a thousand cogs whirring in her brain. It's several seconds before he finally says, "No-one's ever asked you that before, have they?"

Still she doesn't speak. Instead, she crawls higher up the bed, leans down, and kisses him.

She isn't gentle, rough enough that the cut on his lip smarts at her touch, and it sends a tingling thrill to the back of his skull. Her mouth is cool, tasting faintly of salt and iron when she finally opens her lips enough to let him in. It's an unusual taste, but not unpleasant, and he finds he's eager for more of it as the kiss deepens. She's aggressive, insistent. Her hand is at his chest again, catching the quickened beats of his heart in her palm.

He's aching for more by the time she pulls away, eyes gazing down at him coldly. She doesn't withdraw more than a few inches. "I don't trust you."

"I'm at your mercy, dear," he says, waggling an eyebrow. "You don't have to."

She pouts. There's a pause, then she straightens up again, kneeling over him as she grasps the hem of her tank top and pulls it over her head. The gnarled lines of scar tissue curling over her abdomen come into view, continuing up before disappearing below the cup of her bra.

She stares down at him, unblinking as she reaches behind her back and unhooks the clasp, then lets the material fall away. The white lines continue to a puckered mound where her left nipple should be. "This is what sex usually looks like for me," she says. "Are you sure _you_ want continue?"

Briefly, he tests the restraints around his wrists, finding them secure, but there had never been any doubt in his mind. "Positively."

Maybe he's mistaken, but he thinks she smirks.

Carter reaches behind her again, this time delving into the back pocket of her jeans and drawing a penknife. She flicks it open, resting the flat of the blade against his cheek before dragging the edge lightly towards his throat.

He licks his lips. Oh, he's _painfully_ hard. "Well, couldn't you just give the Marquis de Sade a run for his money?"

Now she definitely smirks. The tip moves lower, coming to rest directly above his heart. He can see it moving in time with the pounding of the muscle.

A dangerous glint enters Carter's eyes. "Wouldn't you love to find out?"

The knifepoint pricks his skin; draws blood. He sucks in a sharp intake of breath, inadvertently pushing his chest harder up into it, and Carter grins. "Here," she says, lifting the blood-smeared blade from his chest to his lips. "Taste."

Obediently, he lets his tongue slip out to lick his own blood from the steel before it joins the trickle already running from his busted lip. Carter watches him lap it up, and he puts on a show of going slow; enjoying it. It seems to please her.

"You're good at taking orders, aren't you, Ketch?" she remarks, letting her hand return to his chest to play with the scratch she's just made, smearing blood. "And what an obedient heart, never feeling a fucking thing. Just like the Men of Letters wanted."

He can't tell if she means it as an insult or not.

It takes him by surprise when she gets up, leaving the bed to cross the room to a chest of drawers. Her back is turned to him, more white lines criss-crossing her skin and turning her spine into a ridge. He watches her, intrigued.

"You're right," she says, opening a drawer and retrieving something from inside. The penknife is set down on top. "I am a doctor. I'd hate to let anything go amiss."

When she turns back to him, he sees the stethoscope in her hand. Ketch licks his lips. "Just for your pleasure, dear. I'm sure you can get my heart racing."

She cocks an eyebrow as she kneels over him again, putting in the eartips. "Pleasure, or pain?"

He grins. "Take your pick."

A chill runs through him as she settles the cold diaphragm to his chest, her eyes closing as she listens to the quickened beating of his heart.

He watches her, lips parted, breathing steady, then her free hand starts to roam. It slips under the hem of his boxers, closes around his cock, and his breathing hitches. He knows she heard it: his heartbeat stuttering as she begins to stroke.

Carter's eyes open again, lips curling into a wicked grin. "There's your pleasure." The hand dips lower, finds his balls, and squeezes. Tight. He lets out a hiss. "And your pain."

She lets go, slinging the stethoscope back around her neck as she finishes pulling his underwear off, then sheds her own jeans. He watches eagerly as he takes in the sight of her body: scarred beyond belief, yet lean and strangely beautiful.

Carter takes hold of the stethoscope again, leaning towards him and letting the tubing wrap around his neck. He feels it tighten as she kisses him, cutting off his air, and the thrill goes straight to his dick.

Carter takes her time, the kiss almost lazy, as if she doesn't want to hurry when she knows he only has limited time. Just when he thinks he can't take the lack of oxygen any longer she lets the tension go slack, drawing away and smirking. She unravels the stethoscope from his throat and puts it on again, listening to his chest as it heaves.

"Got you excited, didn't I?" she murmurs, then one of her hands is going lower, wrapping around his cock. She strokes it firmly and he lets out a moan again, trying and failing to match the cold disinterest on her face. She's taking him apart, and she can hear it in every heartbeat.

She rubs up and down the length a few more times before positioning herself over him, letting him slide between her folds, and she's almost disturbingly dry. And cold.

There's a fleeting moment of panic as he wonders if this counts as necrophilia, and why the fuck is that turning his stomach more in excitement than it is disgust?

"Would it kill you to use lube?" he bites out, nerves showing more than intended, and she scowls.

"You think I have some? I wasn't exactly planning on this."

"My jacket. Inside pocket."

She raises an eyebrow, but discards the stethoscope while she leans down over the side of the bed in search of the abandoned clothes. There's a moment's rummaging before she straightens up again, clutching an individual packet of lube and a condom. "Why do I get the feeling this wasn't intended for me?"

He gives her a mocking look. "What, you think I don't get to indulge myself with other people on occasion?"

"Uptight bastard like you? You've got a stick crammed so far up your arse, Ketch, I didn't think there was room for much else up there."

It takes him a moment, then he scowls. While there had been part of him that was still entertaining the thought of getting to use it with Dean Winchester, he hadn't planned to be on the receiving end.

Carter rips open the lube then looks at the condom. "Yeah, not gonna need that," she says dismissively as she tosses it, and sees him look nervous. Her face twists in a mocking leer. "Don't worry, Ketch. My body's an actively hostile environment to both viruses and embryos. I think we'll both be fine."

He bites his lip. "Not really what was concerning me," he huffs through gritted teeth as she starts to slick him up. "More with the whole...being dead."

"Yeah, well." She shrugs dismissively then leans in, teeth finding the side of his neck and biting down. "Your idea. Reap what you sow."

Her teeth move lower, finding his shoulder as she repositions herself once again, then she guides him in. She bites down as she does so, pain erupting on his skin in an almost-distraction as he feels her clamping down like a cold vise around him. He cries out.

"Don't worry," she murmurs softly, lips pulling back and her tongue running soothingly over the wound. "I'll warm up with a little friction."

They start to rock. Carter's in control as their hips begin to move in tandem, setting a steady pace as she grinds down into him. He's almost forgetting to breathe, jaw clenched tight as everything feels so alien. She's cold, and coarse, but her mouth on his skin is so welcome, exhilarating as her kisses move once more to his lips and he tastes his own blood. Her hands roam his body: hips, chest, wrists, anywhere she can pin him down. The lube hasn't helped much, and she's so fucking tight it's chafing, but he doesn't want to stop.

His dick jerks with the thrill when her grip closes around his throat again, thumb on his pulse point, firm pressure over his windpipe. "Are you in pain yet?" she whispers in his ear, then bites down on the tender skin of his cartilage, drawing blood.

He convulses, scream choking in his throat.

"Shh," she soothes, letting up the pressure just enough to draw a whimper, then runs her hand through the blood. It's not a severe wound, but it's bleeding readily, as ear wounds tend to do. He realises he's going to have to explain that one to Hess later.

Her hand slips between their legs, rubbing the red over each of them as he slides out, trying to smooth the roughness, and he wonders how he can feel so simultaneously nauseated and aroused.

Toni was a freak. Mary was hardly vanilla. Carter is something else.

She pulls back, drags her mouth down over his chest until she finds his left nipple, and teases it. Her tongue flicks back and forth several times, and only when he feels her nip at it none-too-lightly with her teeth does he realise where the scar on her breast came from. A moment later, she bites down painfully hard, and he screams. His stomach flips, heart suddenly skipping a beat, and he knows she feels it.

There's a look of satisfaction on her face as she straightens up to ride him cowgirl-style, almost mocking him, yet her expression is otherwise unnervingly blank. There's no pleasure there. No trace that he's affecting her the way she's doing to him. He doesn't know what he expected.

Ketch grunts, bursts of pleasure shooting from his pelvis along his spine. Heat floods his chest. "God, you make my heart race."

It gets the reaction he wanted. A look of arousal flits over her face as he feels her clench tighter around him, and he grins. The one button he knows how to press.

She's almost glaring when she leans down again, hands closing on his wrists, thumbs digging in over his pulse points. Her grip is punishingly tight, and he remembers all too clearly what it's like to feel his bones crunch under those hands. "Don't forget that I can make it stop, too," she growls, and then her mouth is back on his.

They start to pick up pace, savage as Carter snatches moans and whimpers from Ketch's mouth and he draws a resounding silence from hers. It's not dissatisfaction, and he knows it.

Her lips are on his throat again when her hands go for the tie and begin to skilfully unpick the knot. All the while she never breaks rhythm, hips driving like a machine.

Ketch is hungry for it when the restraints come off, hands immediately grasping for her, roaming, searching. She's like razorblades, jutting lines of scar tissue biting at his hands everywhere he touches. He's never felt so soft. For as long as he can remember he's thought of his body as a weapon; just another tool for the kill, but where he's iron she's steel, tempered and carbonised.

Her collarbone juts from under her skin like a knife and he bites down on it, hard, and she doesn't even seem to notice. He sucks, draws blood into his mouth, and only then does he feel the sudden wrench on his hair, pulling him back.

He gazes up and her, taking in the characteristically blank expression. She doesn't seem pissed. "Careful," she warns. "My blood's toxic."

He licks his lips. "Survivable in small doses?"

"Honestly, I've never tested it."

He thinks he'll take the risk. His mouth returns to suckle at the angry ring of red, and she lets him as they fall back into a rhythm. She's so fucking _tight_ around him, the lack of heat compensated by the friction from the rough, uneven texture of her walls, and _holy_ _shit_ he thinks there's even more scar tissue on the inside where he can't see.

Their pace is punishing, the snap of her hips driving his pelvis into the bed with more force than anyone her size should rightly be able to conjure, and he can feel himself getting close. God, she's fucking _spectacular_. Animal, machine, he doesn't know what, but the savagery of it sends him reeling. He's met his match, and been exceeded.

Her nails claw into his back, gouging like talons, and he's fucking _done_. He gasps, jerks, then he's spilling himself into her with a cry. She holds him as he convulses, then sinks back down onto the pillows with him, every cut on his body stinging with blissful pleasure-pain.

He waits for the aftershocks to clear before putting his lips on her again, finding a spot on her throat to gently nuzzle before his teeth come back out. It doesn't get a reaction, but he's long since figured not to expect one as he rolls her onto her back, his kisses getting more insistent. Carter's hands rake through his hair.

"Ketch." She says it in a tone so matter of fact it's hard to believe they're in the middle of sex. He doesn't stop.

" _Ketch_." This time she's more insistent. Maybe he can even hear a note of actual distress there, strangely uncharacteristic after the brutality she'd taken without a word, and he hesitates. "You can stop," she says plainly, "I'm not going to come."

He pulls away, blinks as he looks down at her. "I have more stamina than you give me credit for. I can finish you."

"No you can't." Her face is expressionless. "We're done."

That stings. More than he'd expected. He pouts as he rolls off of her, the fresh cuts on his back hitting the sheets and making him hiss.

"It's not you," she says after a moment, and her voice has become surprisingly tender. Almost vulnerable. "I'm just not...built for that."

He turns to look at her again, an eyebrow raised. "No?" He wasn't mistaken. She does actually look shy.

"I won't come. Not like this."

"Oh." There's an awkward beat. "But you have? Experienced an orgasm before?" It's forward, and personal, but after what they've just done he doesn't think she'll care.

She gives him a look. She isn't blushing, though he doubts it's even a physiological possibility for her. But there's a definite crack in her armor.

"Oh, I have." She turns away from him. "When I've been elbow deep in hot gushing blood. But never from sex."

That's intriguing. Yet he understands it on a visceral level that a really deep, tiny, incredibly well buried part of him feels ashamed of. "You've never had consensual sex before, have you?" It's said as a statement, matter-of-fact in a way he thinks she'll appreciate. "After 92 years on this earth."

Carter turns to the nightstand, reaching for the bottle of whiskey and the two tumblers waiting for them. She pours them each a glass, handing his over to him without meeting his gaze. "You be gang raped by Nazis, Ketch, then tell me if you're ever in the mood for consensual sex again. Even after 92 years." She drinks.

He does too, a more measured sip than her gulp, considering. "How old were you?"

"You've read my file."

"Twenty?"

"Nineteen."

He doesn't say anything, simply watches as she drinks again. He should be shocked. Horrified. All he can think is that it explains a lot.

"I was twenty when the Allies finally got me out," she elaborates, wiping her lips. "Nineteen when the Nazis first uncovered I was a spy. Seventeen when I dropped into Frankfurt. Fifteen when I started training."

A pause follows in which they both drink again.

"I started training as early as I can remember," Ketch finally states.

"For something notably different."

"I hunt monsters; you hunted Nazis. They aren't leagues apart."

A bitter smile crosses her lips. "The Nazi hunting came later. After Nuremberg, I had an...unofficial agreement with the higher-ups at MI6. The ones who raped me weren't going to be sentenced to execution, but if I went after them on my own, the government would turn a blind eye."

"So what did you do?"

"What do you think?" She empties the tumbler and pours herself another one.

There's silence for a beat again, but oddly, it's more comfortable. Ketch can practically feel the satisfaction radiating off of her, even tainted with the barest hint of shame. It's a feeling that's all too familiar.

"So, was it good for you?" he eventually asks. "What I suppose we can call your first time?"

She gives him a mocking look. "Do you usually have to ask that?"

"I wouldn't exactly call this situation usual."

She turns away, shrugs. "I got what I wanted."

That gets a smirk. "You're so easy to please."

"How do you figure?"

"All I have to do is have a beating heart and scream when I'm hurt. Didn't even need to get you off."

Another pause while Carter stares off into the distance in contemplation. She drinks again, more slowly, measured. "You have no idea how aware you are of your own heartbeat until you don't have one anymore." There's a far off, almost wistful look in her eyes. "All the sounds your body makes when you're alive, your brain filters them out. Heartbeat, blood flow, digestion...but when there's nothing there to filter anymore, when you're only breathing out of habit and your breath is fucking deafening, you notice it."

She isn't done. He can tell, and he waits out the silence for her to finish.

"You were right. I miss it," she continues. " I miss what it's like to feel your heart pound in excitement, or fear, or even pain. So...yeah. Guess I have to enjoy yours instead." She gulps down the last of her whiskey.

He finishes his drink, sets the glass down on the floor beside the bed. Carter sets her own back on the nightstand, staring off into the distance.

"It's still beating, you know," Ketch says softly.

She turns back to him, blinks as if only just seeing him for the first time. "Yeah." She leans in, settling herself back down into the bed as her ear comes to rest on his chest, listening.

Unseen, he smiles. "Oh, so we're cuddling now?"

"We aren't cuddling."

He moves his arms to wrap around her, stroking the scarred skin of her shoulder. "I think you'll find we are."

"Oh." She nuzzles into him contentedly. "So this is what it's like."

She'd once told him she doesn't have a heart. Ketch doesn't believe her.


	2. Chapter 2

It's an odd hour for both of them, neither when either of them would usually be sleeping, but hardly when the rest of the world would be awake. It's still dark when Carter abruptly gets up and starts pulling on her clothes.

"So, now that we've established I'm wholly inexperienced in the ways of love and more accustomed to murder and torture," she says abruptly, dragging Ketch roughly from the contented nap he'd more or less been in. "What about you? You hardly strike me as the loving type either."

He blinks, caught off guard by the question and still not fully alert. There's a disappointed ache in his chest, but he ignores it. "Well, I'd say I've had _experiences,_ at least."

"Didn't end well?"

He thinks of Mary. How he means nothing to her, yet she'd cared enough to try to let him down gently. He doesn't know. "I'm not so sure it _has_ ended."

"Hm." She raises an eyebrow.

"I mistakenly thought perhaps there was something there," he elaborates. "Though, the situation is...complicated. In any case, I doubt she reciprocates my feelings."

"And you think I do?"

The question strikes him as needlessly defensive. "Perhaps not the _same_ feelings, but I'd certainly say this seemed to mean something to you."

She smiles bitterly. "Really? I'm still not so certain I can feel anything at all."

The armor's back up. He doesn't comment as he gets up, starts pulling on his own clothes. "Could I trouble you for a sewing kit?" he says when he gets to his de-buttoned shirt. "I can hardly go out in this."

"There should be a spare shirt in one of the drawers you can have," she says with a shrug and a nod towards the dresser.

"You have men's shirts?"

"I've acquired a few, over the years."

He doesn't question it, but goes to the dresser and pulls open a drawer, rifling through the contents. He finds a shirt in his size, creased and an off-yellow color, smelling musty. He pulls a face. "You have anything a little more modern?"

"I probably got it off a KGB lackey I killed in the seventies. Take it or leave it."

He takes it, pulling it on but leaving his tie and jacket off as they head through to the living room, carrying the other garments with him. Her latest apartment is considerably smaller than the last: two rooms, all her equipment cluttering up the combined kitchen-lounge. He sees the familiar exam table, still bearing the marks of damage from his rough handling last time, and various other monitors and equipment.

Carter goes to bring out a first aid kit which she dumps unceremoniously down on the breakfast bar. "Those cuts need seeing to." Her tone is indifferent. Practical.

Strangely, only now does Ketch start to feel self conscious. He's more than able to take her hurting him. Her caring for him is, he's learned, something else. "Oh no, really, it's fine."

She stares at him, deadpan. "Really?"

"Nothing I can't handle, I assure you."

Her expression turns more derisive. "Don't tell me: the Men of Letters medical personnel are more than competent, right?" She doesn't really allow him chance to respond before giving a dismissive shake of her head and a shrug. "Suit yourself."

She goes instead to make tea. Ketch lets it drop, his attention turning instead to his surroundings as he crosses to one of the machines.

"You're an Earl Grey man, right?" Carter asks from by the counter.

"I am indeed."

"Too bad. You're getting Yorkshire."

He supposes she's being rude on purpose, but it actually gets something of a smile. "Here's something I wanted to ask," he says as he studies the machine in front of him. "Why medical school? You don't strike me as the doctorly type."

She starts filling the kettle, answering without even looking at him. "I got chance to browse a lot of anatomical diagrams in Germany, patched up more than a few wounds with the DRK. Always held a certain interest. Night I escaped, bombing raid from the RAF came just at the right time. Guerilla ground attack came from the Dutch, the prisoners seized the opportunity to riot, and a bomb dropped right on the place I was being held. The one guy left guarding me took a piece of shrapnel right across his stomach. Guts went everywhere. It was... fascinating." A tiny, ironic smile settles on her lips. "He was still alive, begging me for help, so I smashed his head in with a wireless, took his gun and his boots, and ran. Got picked up by the Americans a day or so later a few miles from the front. After the war was over, I went to medical school. Wanted to be a coroner."

"So, you wanted chance to see people's insides better," he remarks. "Aren't you a woman after my own heart."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, just look at the wit on you." It's sarcastic, but she's smirking.

Ketch turns back to the machine, looking at the screen, the attached wires, the device that looks like a probe, while she returns to the tea. "An echocardiogram, correct?"

She glances over briefly. "Yeah."

"Hmm." He reaches out to press a button; switches it on. In the background, the kettle is boiling, but Carter has turned to him, watching. She's scowling just slightly. "What?" he asks. "Curious how I know to do that?"

"You pushed a power button, Ketch. It's hardly special."

He smirks, amused. "Come here." He holds an arm out to her.

The kettle is almost done, but she ignores it. Her gaze is fixed cautiously on him as she approaches, not taking the offered hand, but coming to stand well inside his personal space. She watches him as he picks up the bottle of contrast gel from the machine's stand, coats the end of the wand with it, then reaches out with his free hand to pull down the hem of her tank top. She's watching his face when he presses the probe to her chest.

"See," he says, glancing at the screen. "You do have a heart."

Carter bites her lip, an uncommon betrayal of emotion as she turns to watch the grainy shapes on the screen. Static. Unmoving. "Yeah, but hear that?" she says as she turns back to him. "Nothing. You could put a bullet in it and blow it away, and it wouldn't make a blind bit of difference."

It's an oddly violent statement, even for her. "If you freeze the image, mine wouldn't look so different."

"I suppose not." She lifts a hand, smiles sadly, and pushes him away. With her other hand she flicks the machine off. "Leave the equipment to the experts, yeah?"

She turns away, goes back to making the tea. He finds he doesn't really care for it. "Actually," he says, pulling back on his jacket. "While you may have freed yourself from your shackles, I still have a job, and orders to fulfill."

She pours herself a cup, then doesn't bother with a second one. "Guess you best get going then."

"Quite," he says, slipping on his shoes. "I have some pesky Winchesters to deal with."

"Ketch." He turns to look at her, seeing her leaning against the counter with a mug of tea in her hands, watching him coolly. "Word of advice: stay away from Dean Winchester."

He gives a cocky grin. "Oh, don't worry. Dean Winchester won't hurt me."

"No." Her cool expression hasn't changed. "But you lay a hand on him, and I will."

He bristles. It's out of left field, the last thing he'd expected, and suddenly he wants to punch her. Just like _fucking_ Mary. "Well, I guess we'll see about that, won't we?" he snaps, shoulders hunched as he turns and strides for the door without a further goodbye.

Carter watches him go, then lifts the mug to hide her face from nobody as a tear slips down her cheek.


End file.
